It's SingleTails! The days and nights, hopes and dreams, musings and obsessions, RBIs and strike outs, whips and chains, meatloaf and scalloped potatoes...
...of one leatherman.

Friday, January 30, 2004

Freaks!

Great conversation around the sanding table at work today. We were talking about the big house, just about every room of which is filled with cabinetry and built-ins that we have made. I expressed disdain for the place, chock-a-block of styles. But what's more, I said, it represents a change which has taken place here in Bucks County. Where once were farms, now there are developments filled with McMansions. And the Big House is exemplary for that.

It's shocking to realize that in Plumstead Township, where I live, there are no longer any dairy farms? A quarter of the kids that I went to school with were farm kids, sitting next to you in American History, smelling like manure, fresh from the morning milking.

A friend of mine in elementary school was from a dairy farming family. My friend Jeff hated the cows. But his older brother Dave wanted nothing more in life than to take over the farm and follow in his father's footsteps. Their farm is now growing nothing but McMansions.

What every happened to Dave? I guess he's now working in a Burger King or something.

Anyway, I started to recount how cool New Hope was in the 1970s. My young colleagues, who weren't alive during that particular decade, and barely made the scene for the '80s, were rapt with attention.

"It was all freaks," I said, "hippies, queers, bikers. Everybody got along and knew everybody else. it was beautiful." I wondered--really wondered, actually, as in, I'd be seriously interested in knowing this--if there was such a haven anywhere in the world today. Y'see, New Hope was done in by economics. The rich people moved in and took over. Up went property values. Up went rents. Out went the hippies, queers, and bikers.

Adieu, freaks.

Here was the significant thing, I think. That formula I used: "hippies, queers, bikers." I think it's kinda paving the way for the Big Announcement, whenever it comes.

Thursday, January 29, 2004

Politics

I love presidential politics. It's like a spectator sport.

Will Dean get the votes? Will the hyped I Have A Scream speech be the equivalent of Edmund Muskie's tears? Will Kerry catch fire and find a way to inspire? What's wrong with Clark? Why isn't he attracting votes? Lieberman truly seems to be a Man of Faith, huh?

And so much more to come! The conventions! The choice of running mate! Debates!

I heard an NPR listener complain that the elections are being covered like a horse race. What about the issues? How come we never hear about the issues? What's with all this soundbite coverage?

Soooo missing the point. It's being covered by a horse race, because it is a horse race. Sound and fury, signifying nothing. That's politics. Ultimately, it doesn't matter who's elected. For the vast majority of Americans, not a lot will change either way. Government, from the Whitehouse down to the Plumstead Township Board of Supervisors, is a big machine. And it goes on no matter whose name happens to be on the door of the biggest office. It's a large, chaotic system, and thus change is slow and cannot be brought about by any single change.

George W. Bush is probably the most politically radical man ever to make it into the Oval Office. Going to war in Iraq is turning out to be a huge misstep, but that, too, shall pass. Time and time again, some new proposal (the War on Poverty, the Civil Rights Act of 1964, Ending Welfare As We Know It) is greeted by the Right or the Left as the end of everything. Disaster, surely, will follow. But, of course, it doesn't.

Wednesday, January 28, 2004

Crying

Dang.

Was just messaging back and forth with a guy on World Leathermen. He's a big, built, cigar smoking, bearded man. And he's looking for a Sir. We were comparing notes. He's not having much more luck than I am.

I told him about how it was with the Boss during MAL. How lying there in bed next to him, wearing that heavy gauge collar around my neck, I started to cry, and cry and cry and cry. Cried because it felt so right. Cried because I was afraid it would end. Cried because I knew that I'd be taking the collar off soon. Just cried.

My interlocutor responded, "I know what you're talking about on all counts."

It felt so good.

I don't want to do a scene. I don't want to get flogged or punched or whipped or tied up or whatever. I just want to have a chain padlocked around my neck. And if I cry, Sir doesn't flip out. Cuz Sir will get it. On all counts.

Monday, January 26, 2004

This just in...

Would you believe that I do have a Jungian analyst in my readership? (And a damn hot one who was instrumental in me whipping a man--as opposed to shrubery--for the first time.) And he says my Myers-Briggs discussion below is pretty much on target.

Gosh, that flypaper mind of mine. Things just get stuck there. I mean, we're talking twenty years. Whoa.

It's winter. In winter here in the mid-Atlantic states, that means it's cold, and there are various forms of frozen precipitation falling from the sky. So why is it that every blessed time it snows, there's so much hype on the news that you would think that we were living in Ecuador and this was happening for the first time. Or the onset of another Ice Age.

And all this hype gets my father upset. I had to fight my way out of the house and off to work this morning because we had three inches of powder on the ground. The snow plows had been out since eleven p.m. the night before, before the first flake hit the ground.

But you wouldn't know that from the nightly news. Just unbelievable hype there...
Good evening! I'm Clint Cullen, and this is Bonita Pagette, and this is the News at Eleven! Our big story tonight... Well, we'll go right to our reporter Avery Simmons who's on the scene. Avery...

Hello, Clint. I'm on the corner of Broad and Chestnut Streets, in the heart of the city, and... if our cameras could point at the what we're talking about, as you can see, the sky is dark! That's right! It's dark out here! There is no light at all coming from the sky. There is no sun. There is no moon. There are not even any stars in evidence. It is really dark out here.

Avery, this is Clint back in the newsroom, so what your saying is it's not just dark out there, but it's... dark dark.

Clint, that's excactly what I'm here to report.

Thanks, Avery. Our weatherman, Dave Diamond, is here. Dave, perhaps you can shed some 'light' on this situation?

Clint, this is serious. Commuters making their way home first noticed that slowly but surely, there was less and less light available. And the situation only got worse. And if we can blow up the map here... this problem is affecting not just us in the Tri-State area, and not just up and down the eastern seabord, but our entire time zone!

Dave, I can't believe what I'm hearing! This situation is that far-reaching?

I'm afraid so, Clint. It's dark out there. It's very dark. And folks from Halifax, Nova Scotia to Montevideo, Uraguay are in the same boat as we are.

And how dark is it? Well, the Kugle Darkness Index indicates that it's actually coming in at a Negative Six!

Wow! Negative Six!

That's right, Clint. A Negative Six.

Thanks for that news, Dave. Disturbing as it is.

Bonita, you've been talking to some folks to find out about the impact that these conditions will have on our viewing audience.

Right Clint. Here I have Deputy Police Commissioner Michael Choi. Commissioner Choi, you indicated to me earlier that when there's less light, you tend to see a spike in criminal activity, is that right, Deputy Commissioner?

Uh... that's correct, Bonita.

And do you have any idea why that would be, Deputy Commissioner Choi?

Well... I mean, there are less people out on the street when it's dark, and so that gives criminals a better opportunity find a potential victim alone. And... y'know... since there's not a lot of light, that means that... um... wrongdoers can commit crimes... under the cover of darkness and up their chances of being seen.

And now we have Assistant City Manager Laurel Cameron. Ms. Cameron, what has the city been doing to prepare for this emergency?

Excuse me? Emergency...

Well look outside, Ms. Cameron, it's dark out there!

Dark. Right.

Ms. Cameron, has the Street Administration done anything at all to protect citizens from this terrible situation? Are you telling me that this has been totally ignored?

No. No, Bonita, that's not what I'm saying. I mean, there are over one hundred thousand streetlights in the city. And, there are more police officers on the street at night than during the day... and... well... we are doing everything we can. And there's no reason to panic.

But if people can avoid it, they shouldn't be going out, wouldn't you agree, Ms. Cameron?

Well... I don't know that...

For instance, many seniors have vision problems that are only made worse by the darkness conditions that we're seeing. Don't you think that they had better wait until the situation resolves before venturing out if at all possible?

Well, I guess...

So there you have it, Clint. If you don't have to go anywhere, the Street Administration is urging that you stay in your home.

Thanks for that fine investigative journalism, Bonita.

Avery, how are people reacting to this out on the street?

Clint, I'm here with Paul Sciavone of South Philadelphia. Paul, how ae you deeling with these dark conditions?

Uh... well, I got caught at work tonight, and...

So what you're saying, Paul, is coming home in almost total darkness is not something you're used to?

Well, I mean...

So you heard it, Clint. No panic yet, but I think that only speaks to the courage of the people of Philadelphia.

Thanks, Avery. Let us know right away if that changes.

Dave, I realize you don't have a crystal ball, but any idea what we can expect for the morning commute?

Sunday, January 25, 2004

INTP

Any Jungian Analysts in my readership?

Hope not.

Otherwise, I can expect a deluge of 'Au Contraire, Mon Confrere!' emails. Y'see, I'm about to run roughshod over their sacred ground. The topic on which I'd like to edgimicate y'all is the Myers-Briggs Personality Profile System.

I was tested to determine my Myers-Briggs profile some twenty years ago, when I was pounding on the door of yet another seminary. It was part of the discernment process of this particular affiliation, and it went down over the course of a weekend long retreat. Anyone similarly situated has probably undergone much the same thing. And, many B-schools are now doing the same thing.

Not to say that it's the be-all-and-end-all. It's something better horoscopes, but it's still an attempt by we puny humans to take what William James described as the 'blooming, buzzing confusion' that is reality and put chunks of it into labeled boxes.

But I think it's really cool.

It has as its basis Carl Jung's archetypal ideas on personality. It sets up along a continuum four aspects of the human personality:

An extrovert derrives energy from interactions with others. He finds being alone to be draining. On the other hand, an introvert finds dealing with other people to sap his energy, and will need to be alone afterwards to recharge his batteries.

A sensate person is grounded in the five senses. An intuitive person, on the otherhand, lives primarily in his head.

A thinking person figures things out, weighs options, makes lists, does cost-benefit analyses. A feeling person has no need for any of that. He goes with his gut.

A judging person (poorly named), feels stress until he comes to closure on a decision. However, a perceiving person (again, poorly named) wants to postpone closure as long as possible.

Okay. So let's say we have two roommates. One is an INTJ, and the other is an ESFP. They plan an evening out going to the movies. To start off with, both of them arrives home after a horrendous day at work. INTJ needs some time alone to recover. But ESFP wants to sit his roommate down and tell him--in detail everything that went on to recharge his batteries.

So what movie will they see. INTJ has gone through the papers and read all the reviews. His studies have provided him with a good grasp of what's showing that's good, and what's bad. But ESFP has a strong feeling about what movie is going to be 'good,' although he can't point to any specific reason he feels so strongly about that.

They have very different movies in mind. They do their best to make a decision. INTJ wants to decide before they leave the house, but ESFP would much rather they walk to the theater, see what movie is up next, and just let fate decide.

They go to the movie. ESFP was impressed by the special effects, the cinematography, the set designs, the musical score, and the like. INTJ couldn't tell you what the lead character was wearing at any given point in the movie. However, he can discuss endlessly the interplay of symbolism and the philosophical ideas behind the script.

Clear?

Good.

There are sixteen possible personality types that can be derrived from this system. The test I took all those years ago indicates that I am an INTP, an Introverted, Intuitive, Thinking Perceiver. I build intricate houses of cards in my head, but I'm not very good at realizing them with actual decks of cards. I prefer to work on my alone, and according to my own timeframe.

Now here's the thing that makes Myers-Briggs really cool.

Figured out which of the sixteen types you are? It's tough, huh? One of the things that makes it tough is that we contain within ourselves the opposite of ourselves, which Jung called 'the Shadow.' Our shadow-self comes out when we play, and when we're under extreme stress. And, at the point in our life when our own mortality becomes a certainty to us, we flip. The shadow emerges and takes over.

Far out, huh?

What does all of this have to do with S/M? Wellll... I very much tend to live in my head. But not when I'm doing S/M. Uh uh. Then it's all about sight, smell, sound, touch, and taste. And that feeling I have of becoming more and more myself? I bet that's the Shadow.

Saturday, January 24, 2004

Con Air

How did I miss this one? Woof! Nick Cage, John Cusack, and a very diabolical and woofy John Malkovich. And tons of eye candy among the extras. Didn't follow the plot very closely. Something about convicts trying to escape on a plane or something. And good special effects, too. Explosions. Landing said plane on the the Las Vegas Strip.

I can empathize with NASA. The Spirit Rover on Mars is having software problems. Had to restart over sixty times. I know just how that feels. I've had nights like that. Wonder if Microsoft built that software?

Although I did my best to talk myself out of it, I drove down to Philadelphia last night and went to the montly meeting of the Philadelphia Bondage Club. The plan was that I would meet up with a guy I met at the Raven in New Hope (always been interested... never done anything... with I guy like you...).

Surprise! New Hope guy was a no-show. Which I pretty much expected. Marlboro Sir was there. Which I expected, too. I had my butt plugged, cuz Marlboro Sir likes that.

I have to sit down and have a talk with Marlboro Sir. Not looking forward to it. Along the lines of, "Remember how I said I was hot to take your charged load? Well, scratch that."

So last night I had another idea. Marlboro Sir, you might remember, is a bottom except with me. And whaddya know? I had a gear bag full of floggers. So we did a flogging scene.

Time was short as they were kicking us out at midnight, but it went well. And it felt so good to flog a man again.

Now don't you all go hatin' on Marlboro Sir just because he wants to shoot a load of poz jism up the tight muscular butt of Yours Truly. He really is a good guy. But, after the scene, I undid the restraints, and we collapsed together on a mattress on the floor and he was all about whispering in my ear about how it's gonna happen. This is not gonna be welcome news to Marlboro Sir.

Ah well.

After the Bondage Club, I headed to the Bike Stop. Piss Boss was stationed in the coat check. He told me to give him a call sometime. Sounds like a good idea.

Not many guys I knew there. Tends to be half empty on Friday nights. Saturday has always been the night to head to the 'Stop. But the crowd was good looking. Several hot Sirs in evidence.

At one point, this guy came up to get another beer at the bar. I looked at him. And I took a second look. It was (uh....) Richard.

[flashback]

Fifteen years ago, when I lived in Philadelphia, I met Richard. I was coming out of Woody's (I believe) and he was standing in the door. A hot, built man. Being the naive, self-conscious, insecure, shy boy that I was, I did what I always did when confronted with a hot man. I kept my eyes on my boots as though an urgent message was going to flash from them at any minute.

But Richard was undeterred. "Hi!" he said, "Dick." and extended his hand.

I got to know him on that sort of casual go-to-the-same-places kind of way. And through him, I met his best friend. Best friend had a cat named Ned. And, he had a job that took him down to South and Central America for a week or more at a stretch. He told me he hated to leave Ned with the pound, almost as much as Ned hated it. So when best friend would head down to Peru or wherever, I would take care of Ned.

Ned was a great cat. He was a Chartreux. Often confused with a Prussian Blue, but not. He had a beautiful grey pelt that hung off him. He had the best disposition. Totally un-neurotic. Completely unflappable. So much more like a dog than a cat.

Once, I ran into best friend out and about in Philadelphia. "Gosh! I didn't realize you were back in town! When do you want me to drop off Ned?"

Best friend looked sheepish. He had been back for three days. He was leaving again in two days. He asked me if I liked Ned. I told him I did. "Well," he said, "Why don't you become Ned's Daddy?"

And so I gained a cat. A wonderful cat. Ned is no longer with us. He died a week after my sister. Of a blood clot. Just like my sister. He is sorely missed.

I hadn't kept up with Richard when I left Philadelphia. I moved to NYC to move in with my boyfriend, who I was dating when I met Richard.

Last night, we established that we were both single. We're gonna meet up for dinner. I was wearing leather jeans made by Mephisto, my harness, and arm bands. No shirt. So I don't have a lot of explaining to do. Not sure if Richard is kinky. Not sure if he is a strong believer in the monogamy thing. But yeah, I'd date him.

The man has got it going on.

But, wherever things go with Richard, and despite the loser that dragged me down to Starbucks on Thursay night, I just have this feeling in my gut that I'm getting close. That the man flagging Hunter Green Left that i've been hoping for will make himself known sometime soon. Absolutely nothing I can point to.

Thursday, January 22, 2004

Dang.

What a kick in the stomach. Just met up for coffee at Starbucks with an alleged Sir from Trenton, New Jersey. I guess 'Trenton, New Jersey' should have been my first clue. But down at MAL, I overheard a pretty hot man in the cigar tent say he was from Trenton, New Jersey, and I guess somewhere in my synapses I was hoping that despite the jpeg this guy sent to me, MAL guy was who would be showing up at Starbucks.

Anyway. Full of lies. Wearing a cheap stained shirt. Living in a rented room. White sneakers. And worst of all, awful breath. I mean, just sickening. First thing when I got home I washed my face. All the way home, I was smelling it on my stache. Oh. And he described himself as a 'great kisser' and seemed intent on proving that. Again and again and again and again.

Eeeeeeeew.

He mentioned to me while we were sitting there at Starbucks that one of the services he would be looking for his boy to provide would be to 'make his feet feel good.' Given the state of his mouth, I can only imagine what the state of his feet would be. I almsot lost my latte.

I mean... da fuck.

There is like nothing going on here in the hinterlands Sir-wise. What is up with that?

I feel like just sitting home all weekend. Not a good idea. Weekends are precious, and if I did that, I'd be regretting it all next week. A hot Sir from NYC who claims he was scoping me out ferociously at Folsom Street East told me that we should 'definitely meet and soon.' I proposed coming up to NYC this Saturday, and in response got an email along the lines of 'okay. let you know.'

I mean, where do these guys get off?

Running through my mind has been a nagging thought: maybe my standards are just too high? Maybe I'm falling into the trap of searching for an idealized, and therefore non-human Sir, and the human beings proposing themselves for that post will inevitably fall short.

Nope. You wanna know the standard I'm applying? The yardstick I'm using? That would be me. I was (and am, and will be again) a good Sir.

Let's break that down, shall we?

I take care of myself. I realize that as M. Sartre said, 'Appearances are evil, but they're everything.' No boy wants a skinny Sir. So I hit the gym. And I do my best to look good. It ain't rocket science.

I don't rush things. I realize that for any boy, doing a scene or taking a collar is a Big Step, and one that should be considered thoughtfully. A boy is not some sort of sexual public park, open for anyone to come on in and plop down on the grass. A boy's heart is a carefully guarded citadel.

I take care of a boy. I pay for dinner. I buy him a beer. If the situation calls for it, I make sure he gets breakfast the next morning.

I appreciate the boy. I am the soul of gratitude. And rightfully so. No boy owes me anything. It's a gift he gives. That's what makes it beautiful.

Anyway.

Singletails is becoming pretty gripey lately, no? Sorry about that. I'm actually pretty chipper lately. I'm feeling good. I had a great day at work today. Loving my job. Loving the work. Feeling blessed in many ways. Clear and solid.

Tuesday, January 20, 2004

An Anutha Thing

If memory serves, back in November, we were promised new episodes of Queer Eye. I remember exactly two new episodes. What is up with that? Are there no longer any unreconstructed straight men in the 'greater New York metropolitan area?'

Actually, that could be. There's a new guy at work. He's... y'know... 12 or whatever. But he is quite the metrosexual. It's pretty astonishing.

Tonight, I collected on my brother's Christmas present to me, a massage at our gym. This was the earliest appointment I could get. It was a one hour massage, from 6:30 to 7:30 pm. I wanted to do some stretching and a light workout afterwards. This had me on the floor much later than usual.

There are some hotties there late at night! Including this huge guy, very serious about his workouts (does chest presses with 130 pounders). And, he's very solicitous of me. Perhaps I can rearrange my schedule somewhat.

Here's some really good news. On February 1st, I'll have health insurance. I didn't get COBRA when I left my non-profit job to work for Boss Sunshine. This was a mistake. It seems that the wheels of healthcare in the State Senate grind exceedingly slow. So slow that I was still not up and running when I left in May. Luckily, I didn't step off a curb wrong or seroconvert or anything in the interim. And in a week I'll be home free. Never again.

I'm realizing something in the wake of MAL. I didn't know I was going so far out. "Not waving but drowning." Without anyone or anything to bounce off of, I couldn't locate myself. Man, after all, is a social animal.

Here in the hinterlands, I've had as much play as I wanted. But here's how play works... you connect on the internet, get an address, drive out there, mutual assent is given (and it's much more likely after you've driven two hours), you get busy, you dust yourself off, you drive home.

But no community.

I need my kind. I need to be a part of something.

And I think I need a friend. Not necessarily someone who's interested in bedding me. More someone to go to the movies with. But absolutely someone to sit down and talk to.

Being with the Boss made me realize that something: I'm lonely. That's something I've never been before.

Sunday, January 18, 2004

MAL Rocks

That was great. Jiminy Crickets that was great.

On Friday, the 3:30 bell rang at work and I was out the door. The Trusty Jeep Liberty was gassed up, and I was on the road, listening to Lucinda and Emmylou, eating sourdough prestzle bites, and drinking Rosenberger's Dairy Iced Tea (affectionately known as 'Rosie's' round these parts). The ride down took longer than I expected, 4 hours, but Boot Sir lived right on Mass Ave a block from the Washington Plaza. Here's the big new thing to love about DC: parking is plentiful! The meters go off at 5 pm on Fridays and stay off all weekend. Cool.

When I arrived, Boot Sir was at the Leather Navigator party. This gave me time to change out of my crappy work clothes and moisturize. Boot Sir and my fellow houseguest returned from the LN party (they saw no one they recognized), and we were on our way to a cocktail party in Arlington.

Lots of hot hot men at the party. The food was good. And the house was humongous. Oddly, I didn't see a dungeon. As the party wound down, we made our way back into the district and found our way to the Washington Plaza.

And there it was. MAL in all it's glory.

That felt soooo good.

Remember that Twilight Zone episode where the bandages were removed from the beautiful young girl, who was told that the operation failed, and the camera pulls back and all the doctors and nurses have pig faces? 'Eye of the Beholder' it was called? Well that's me. Lost and forlorn. Unsure of who I was.

But here I was back among my kind. Men (and women) like me. I remembered who I was. I remembered what I was all about. I was me again. Gone were al the pseudo-Sirs from AOL. Gone were all the uncertainties. I know who I am. That felt really good.

I hung in the lobby. Or, more specifically, in the cigar tent. Saw so many people I knew, got caught up. Got everybody (who doesn't read my blog) caught up.

At 2:30, I realized that in two-and-a-half hours I would be up for twenty-four hours straight. So I decided that it was time to head back to Boot Sir's and get some shut eye.

The next morning, I rose, spent time chatting with Boot Sir and my fellow house guest, showered, shaved and moisturized, and headed back to the Washington Plaza. Cuz I had a date.

We flagged each other down on World Leathermen. There was a lot of hot and heavy back and forth. But, he was in SF, and I'm in Carversville. Then came the big news. The Boss was coming east for MAL. We made a date. At 2pm on Saturday, I was to present myself at the Boss' door. We would spend some time getting to know each other.

We played some. The Boss was a little bit confined because of my back, but he still managed to get my attention, beat me around a little, get some boot service out of him (a new thing! I did the bottoms! There was grime dug into the treads on the Boss' boots. I managed to get most of it out with my tongue action. My Sir's boots neaded cleaning. That's what I was there for.)

The Boss had a collar for me. Heavy gauge chain, secured with a padlock. The Boss explained that he had a heavier gauge chain planned for me, but Airport Security at SFO took it away in the interests of National Security. So the Boss had to scour DC hardware stores to find a substitute.

I was hungry, the Boss was hungry. We headed downstairs to avail ourselves of the buffet. I started out following at a respectful distance. The Boss corrected me. When I was with him, I was his bitch. He treated me right. He opened doors for me. Treated me right. And if I fucked up, I'd get it across the chin with the Boss' fist.

Cool.

Over lunch, we talked. Recounted our resumes. The Boss knows just about everybody I know. And vice versa. I ran a non-profit. He ran a non-profit. He knows Boss Sunshine. Agrees that Boss Sunshine merits an intervention of some sort.

Then we checked out the vendor mart. Briefly. Meeting up with buddies of his, buddies of mine. Two leathermen on the scene.

Okay. Back to the room. On the bed. Things got hot and heavy.

In a different kind of way. The Boss gave me some boddy blows. And because I took'em, I got some good time. There I was, curled up against my Sir, feeling the weight of his collar around my neck, the bulk of his body.

It felt so good. It felt so right. It was what I wanted.

And so, I started to cry. The Boss held me, and I just cried. But butch built bald me. Crying. Crying and crying and crying. The Boss took me through it. And took me deeper. I cried out all the loneliness. All the fear. All the worry. All the hate. All the insecurity. This was the place for me. This was where I needed to be. In my Sir's arms, wearing his collar, giving myself to him, giving my body to be beaten by him, because if it gave my Sir pleasure gives me pleasure.

Then we got into a new thing. The Boss is a foot man.

Now, longtime and astute readers of Singletails will know that I have a horror of foot fetishishts. I never got feet.

Or did I?

I give good massage. And it drives the boys wild when I include a foot rub. Did you know that the ideal way to be woken from a deep sleep was to have someone massage your feet? I give good foot massage. I let the Boss know that I was tentative about mouth-to-foot action. So he didn't push it. And therefore it was really cool to kiss, lick, and suck on the Boss' feet. To his obvious delight. Knowing, as he did, that I had 'issues' about that.

Now, the Boss has beautiful feet. They seem small and delicate for such a big man. My feet are pretty yucky. There's never not a fungus. But the Boss' feet were just beautiful. Like a little boy's feet.

And then, there was the grand finale. While my mouth worked every part of the Boss' big, hairy body available to me. Then, the Boss shot his load all over my face. I mean just coated me. I was slick with it.

I've taken a couple of showers, but I haven't washed my face since.

The Boss and I took a nap. I slept like a baby. With his arms wrapped around me.

We woke up and we woke up hungry. The Boss took me to dinner at Annie's, his favorite restaurant in DC. I loved that. Being out with the Boss, wearing that big heavy chain collar around my neck. My Sir's collar.

When we got back to the hotel, the Boss asked me what I wanted to do: part ways, or spend the night. I confessed to being conflicted. Y'see, the Boss has a flaw. He's sort of an non-smoking fetishist. He doesn't want to see it; he doesn't want to be around it; he doesn't want to smell it or taste it on me. So when I got time to 'do what I had to do,' there was usually a shower and mouthwash upon my return. I told the Boss about my conflict. I wanted some time in the cigar tent. Hanging out and smoking cigars with other men smoking cigars is a spiritual thing to me. But, I wanted to spend the night.

The Boss was totally amenable to making both happen. I got an hour. I was to report back to the Boss' hotel room at 12:45 pm. I had fifteen minutes to gargle and shower. The Boss would be back at 1 am.

The cigar tent was great. Lolita and boymeat were working over their boy-du-MAL, who was really really hot. A lot more my type than last years boy-du-MAL. This year's model was a shaggy, bearded blond man, with some hot ink. Who smoked his cigar while Lo' and boymeat got him bound.

Sweet.

And I got in a little Top action. I ran into that Big Muscular Bondage Bottom I did the great chain bondage scene with at MAL. Well... I spotted him, but he didn't spot me. Perfect. I surreptitiously snuck up behind him. I pulled his tshirt out of his pants and put it up around his shoulders. Then I went to work on his back. Alas, the red was just starting to come up when Big Muscular Bondage Bottom turned around and we kissed passionately.

Very sweet. I can live with that.

Anyway, as I was enjoying one of the cigars that Santa brought me, along came the best bearded bootlickin' boy in the world. The boy brought news. He had been talking to the verrrrry woofy current Mr. Philadelphia Leather. A way hot man who I met a few monts ago. It seems that Mr. Philadelphia had told b.b.b.b. that he was interested in learning to wield a flogger. And b.b.b.b said that I was the best he had ever known.

Would I, asked b.b.b.b., be interested in teaching the verrrrrry woofy Mr. Philadelphia the ways of the flogger? As the boy in the old joke said to the girl with the hairlip, Wood Eye! b.b.b.b. made the introduction. I was chagrinned earlier to see Mr. Philadelphia arm in arm with a hot boy who works the leather store at the Bike Stop (who once suggested that I try out a bullwhip I was thinking of on his back... way to make a sale!). But, I sure wouldn't mind meetin' up with him and bringing my floggers. Neither of us had our trick cards, or pens and paper, but it's pretty inevitable that we run into him at the Bike Stop.

Hmmm. Maybe I could recruit Mr. Philadelphia to lend his prestige to the Philadelphia Gay Men's S/M discussion group? And during his reign, he's proved himself to be able and enthusiastic, hosting a very successful fund-raising Trivia Night at the Bike Stop. Might be something in that.

But Egad! Look at the time! I had to get back to the Boss' room and hop in the shower. I said my goodnights, pushed my way through the crowd to the elevators, and headed back.

And there was the Boss, naked, lying in bed, typing away on his laptop. (Cool. Now I have a great visual when we talk online.) The crowd was too much for him, so he headed back to the room early. I showered. I gargled. I climbed into bed beside the Boss.

Another good night's sleep.

"I'm falling hard," I said the next morning. The Boss warned me. "Don't be thinking relationship. I don't do that."

I clarified. Neither do I. Here's what I mean. This is what I want. This feels right. This feels good to me. I didn't say it, but the Boss is just the man I've been looking for. Kinky as hell. Able to take me there. Responsible in his play. A leatherman's leatherman in every respect, whose collar I'd be honored and privileged to wear. It just feels so right.

All good things must come to a close. And so with my time with the Boss.

I dressed, we went downstairs together. The Boss was headed out to buy the Sunday New York Times. I headed back to Boot Sir's. It was time for Brunch.

In another respect I'm the Gayest Gay of All Gays. (I realized that big, butch, blue collar, welding, jeep-driving me had it in me to be the Gayest Gay of All Gays when I was decorating for Christmas, taking such pains to arrange the white pine boughs and branches on the mantle that the entire task took hours.) Y'see, I love brunch. I love everything about brunch. It's just how I want to spend a late morning or early afternoon. Brunch food is the best food I know. And brunch is all about sitting down and talking. Food and conversation.

Boot Sir was holding a brunch. I did my best, given my infirmity, to help out with the preparations. And then in they came. Boot Sir has some very hot brunch buddies. It was great.

This is what I don't have. This is what I've been missing. The absence of this has truly been driving me crazy. Fellowship with like-minded men. Community. Not with men who Get It.

Brunch was great. Brunch was really great.

And then, in walked Almost Bruiser! Cool! I was thrilled to see him. He was thrilled to see me.

But it was time to go. I had to pick up Faithful Companion at the kennel before they closed at 6pm. Almost Bruiser was recruited ("boy, I need some service outta you" said the guy wearing the enormous chain padlocked around his neck (g)") to hep me take my luggage down and load it into the Jeep.

Thursday, January 15, 2004

MAL Bound

Woe is me. After work today, I dropped Faithful Companion off at the kennel for the weekend. This is awful! I hate not having Faithful Companion around. It's miserable. Where's my boy-boy? Where are those appealing eyes? When I got back, there was no pitter-patter of little paws of Faithful Companion came skidding across the kitchen floor to greet me. Awful.

But tomorrow, after work, I head south to Washington DC for MAL. That means there's a hell of a lot of work to do tonight. The cleaning. The filling of the woodbox. The fixing of hamburgers for Dear Ol' Dad.

And the packing.

Ah yes. The packing.

Been thinking about the packing.

There is the story, possibly apocryphal, of four men from New York City heading south on the Jersey Turnpike to go to Delta. They were in an SUV. It was packed to capacity with luggage, so much so that the only one who didn't have anything on his lap was the driver. All of the luggage belonged to one of the men in the car. He was the Top. The other three were bottoms. They were each bringing basically a change of socks.

In years past, MAL has left me frustrated. I go there to play. I pack everything in the car. toybag after toybag after toybag. Bring it all up to the room. Get it all arranged so that I can throw a scene together at a moment's notice. And there it all sits.

Well guess what's on my mind this year?

A change of socks.

In part because I don't feel like going through all the work. And if past is prologue, it's not like I'll be missing out on stuff.

And in part because this weekend, I'll be flagging Hunter Green Right. No qualifying Black Left. Straight up Hunter Green Right.

That's boy seeking Dad, for the uninitiated.

I'm going to MAL as a bottom. And not just a bottom. As a boy.

My Saintly Hoar Headed Grandmother used to say, "If you want to make a sale, put the goods in the window." And that's what I'm gonna do.

What better place to meet a Sir? A Sir who's looking to collar. No place.

So we'll see.

I'm staying the weekend with Boot Sir. A prospect in his own right.

So we'll see.

At the very least, packing just a change of socks will be a hoot, huh? Well, a change of socks and my moisturizers.

Okay. And my SAP gloves, a couple of floggers, wrist restraints, and rope.

Monday, January 12, 2004

I just returned from an eleven day spiritual retreat in a monastery nestled among the mountains of Western North Carolina.

I mean... I just got back from soaking in my brother's jacuzzi, listening to Mussgorsky's 'Pictures at an Exhibition' in candlelight, followed by a sumptuous meal at Perkin's Cakes & Steaks.

Well, same thing.

There I sat in the churning, steamy suds, thinking about the Birth of Aphrodite, the goddess of Love. Yeah yeah yeah. You know she emerged from the sea full grown, riding ashore on a clam shell. But y'see, her mother was an immortal (I forget which one), and her father was a sea god. Or maybe a river god. Anyway, in vengence for his having bedded a deity, his sex was cut from him. Out flowed his final, foaming ejaculate, that filled the oceans. And it was from this pearly froth that Love emerged, and was welcomed by the Olympians.

Rich in allegory, no?

And while I was lying there, taking the waters, I summoned my spirit guide, Master Wolf. He hurried thither without delay. It's been a long, long time since I talked to Wolf. He sat behind me, so I couldn't see what form he took. But his voice is always the same.

Huh. Sitting behind me. That means my Spirit Guide was perched on the commode. How homey!

I asked the questions. he gave the answers. To the best of my recollection, here's a recap of our exchange...
Me: I want transformation! I want new! I want me to be new. I want to be taken like clay, molded, given form and shape. I feel so lost. I want to submit to the Great Sir.

Wolf: You know what transformation requires. Patience. Transformation is slow. And it's hard. And it's frightening. It's climbing the mountain, step by step, and inching out onto the precipice, feeling the sharp wind slapping your face, and then jumping off. It doesn't happen quickly.

But that's not coming your way anytime soon. You've found yourself a nice warm mudhole. Haven't you? Nothing like that is going to happen while you're there.

Me: But... but I...

Wolf: And that's fine. Enjoy the warm mudhole. But be there in the mud hole. And don't get stuck there. Here's a secret. That mudhole can either be the waters of baptism, or a quicksand grave. Stay alive. That makes the difference.

Me: I'm looking for someone. I want someone to haul me out of this mudhole. Or to get down in here with me. I'm tired of being alone.

Wolf: All of us are alone always. Remember that. There's no way out of that. You live your life alone.

Me: But is someone out there? Will I find him?

Wolf: Not if you don't do the work to get ready for him. The great traggedy is when he comes, you're not ready, and you send him away. And you know what 'ready' means. You know the work you need to do. You're still playing children's games with men's hearts, aren't you? Hide-and-seek. Marco Polo. Mother May I.

And let me get this straight. You want to be in a relationship? As J.B. Priestley said, "Marriage is a long, dull meal. With dessert served as the first course."

Me: So maybe I'll just stick around for the first course.

But he's out there, right? Or should I just hang up my gloves and give up the ring for the first opportunity that comes along. Open a proverbial sports bar?

Me: I'm Don Quixote, aren't I? Always tilting at windmills, turning them into dragons. They're just guys, after all, those men. The men who are always disappointing me. They're just guys. They neglect clipping their toenails and complain about their jobs and read Judith Krantz novels. But... y'know... there are windmills and there are windmills, right? Just because it's a windmill and not a dragon doesn't mean...

Last night, I met up with my brother at the gym. In my routine, last night was 'miscellaneous night.' I cover forearms, calves, quads, and core. I go back and forth between liking miscellaneous night (it's not quite a serious work out, I bounce around and just do stuff for each muscle group, just to keep up) and wanting to skip it altogether (well developed forearms are probably not gonna get me laid, so what's the point?).

So I was doing squats. Now, in the not two distant past, I was squatting six plates. (For you non-meatheads, that's six forty-five pound plates, three on each side, and counting the bar itself, the total weight I'm squatting is 315 pounds. Since I got out of the habit of doing squats, last night I was taking it embarrassingly easy: just two plates.

And on rep number two, as I was descending, I heard/felt the Dreaded Squish. No bolt of lightning pain, no shriek of agony. (I am wa-a-a-a-ay too cool for that.) Just an 'uh oh.'

So I've pulled a muscle.

It's a weird thing, pulling a muscle in your back. It's like this little muscle group that you never knew existed before is suddenly gone. Just totally out of commission. And until this happens, you have no idea how vital this little muscle group is.

But you're about to find out. You find out because you suddenly can no longer do all those things that little muscle group does.

Here's the list so far:

Bend at the waist

Lift up my left leg, as you would when walking up stairs

Get up from a chair

Cough

Lift up my head in bed

Roll over while supine

Shift weight from one foot to the other.

I called in to work today. My back feels like it's getting better. And that's good. Of course, in my frustrated attempts to get a good nigbht sleep last night, I had to torture myself with the thought, "What if it's a ruptured disk? What if this isn't going away? What if I'll be in this shape for the rest of my life?"

But it looks as though those malign deities who have marked me for a fate of convalescence are gonna be cheated. It's getting better.

Hopefully, I'll be able to make it to work tomorrow. And hopefully, I won't be feeling in any way out of sorts for this weekend at MAL. ("Why... who is that strikingly handsome man with the bald head and bushy stache... and the cane and backbrace and look of agony on his face?")

But today is the Day of Exclamations. While loading up the dishwasher I dropped a fork on the floor and almost burst into tears of frustration realizing that there was no way I could pick up that fork. Tonight, I'm going over to my brothers. He and his wife have a jacuzzi in their fabulous bathroom. And I'm gonna take advantage of that.

The guy came today to add salt to our water softener (and oh. my. god. was he a hottie! excuse me while I run the water for no good reason) and it took me about twenty minutes to make it up out of the chair where I was sitting, struggle to an upright position, and get across the floor to answer the door. The soundtrack that the water softener guy had to hear ("Just a minute! Eaaagh! Be right there! Aaaiieech! I'm coming! Fuck! Almost there! Oooooaaaah!") was probably pretty priceless.

You all know how I make a lot of noise when processing pain, don'chya?

Anyway. Gonna see if I can take a nap now while the ice pack gets cold again in the freezer.

Sunday, January 11, 2004

Wow. Went to New York last night. The ostensible reason was that I was out of Designer Whey protein powder and tea. I sent an email to Diabolique asking if he wanted to meet up. He did.

We met at the Metropolitan Museum of Art to take in the El Greco show (wonderful) and the Men in Skirts installation in the Costume collection (worth finding, but could've been better). Afterwards, D. and I headed downtown for dinner. Our destination was Bendix on First Avenue and 10th Street so I could have Bendix Curry, one of my favorite things to eat in the whole world. Well guess what? Bendix is closed. Never again will I feast on Bendix Curry.

So we headed to Khyber Pass on St. Marks, an Afgani restaurant. For a great meal.

it was wonderful spending time with Diabolique again. God, I miss that man. Good to hear he's going to be at MAL next week.

Diabolique and I talked and talked and talked and talked. About everything. Well, primarily about S/M and spirituality. That's the shared interest with us.

Yeah, so NYC is not my city any more. And after only a few months in the hinterlands, I can't see living there again any time soon. Not my city any more. Blah blah blah. But Diabolique and several other people make it a place that I need to get to more often.

Well, spend some time on AOL. If your only exposure to S/M was AOL, you'd think it was all about nullo, cannibalism, abduction, mind control through hypnosis, and gift-giving. All of which I find incredibly hot. And that's how I've been whiling away the hours lately.

Most of those are pretty safe. It's highly unlikely that I'm going to end up waking up after a bender to find that some guy has, in fact, removed my cock and balls. Not so with the gift giving thing. There seem to be plenty of guys who would delight in nothing more than giving me their charged seed. And, me getting plowed is not an unusual turn of events. So there's some risk here that i'd take the fantasy too far.

What's the allure?

Well, transformation for one thing. Marlboro Sir has really got me going with the whole cumdump training. (That, as you may have guessed, was what that was all about.) And there's some things to envy there. I've seen guys at clubs and parties who can just climb into the sling and take all comers cummers. Sex pig heaven. Guys I've spoke to who have been pozzed on purpose describe the experience as liberating.

But, things may not turn out so well. I hate doctors. I hate pills. I've never been able to complet a course of antibiotics in my life. Three years ago I was diagnosed with hypothyroidism. The course of treatment is one pill once a day. I've been non-compliant for about a year and a half. And a friend of mine chillingly described his experience of being positive as not having a normal solid stool for the past seven years. I am not up for that.

But the thing is, all of that is pseudo-S/M. As opposed to real S/M. Real S/M is about connnection. About pushing limits. About the quest for excellence in ourselves and others. I know. I've been there. It's amazing. And I need some of that.

Y'see, pseudo-S/M is far more readily available than the Real Thing.

Except at MAL.

*sigh*

I'll be staying with the man--the very very very hot man--who broke me into boot service. That on its own should be worth the trip. Everything else is gravy.

Saturday, January 10, 2004

Whining. Again.

Last night, Piss Boss called and did a check in. Y'know, since I've been doing the submission thing, that is the first time that a Top has done a check in phone call. I haven't been perfect on that score myself (although I do a check-in more often than I don't), although I'm going to from here on.

Because it made me feel so good. Like someone was looking out for me.

*sigh*

Because lately, if truth be told, I've been bored. Bored with play. Play play play. Ho hum. It just seems like so much effort.

And it's really cold outside. I have enough trouble keeping the woodbox filled, little less packing up a toybag and heading out into the bleak mid-winter to play.

It's easier being a bottom. No toybags to pack! But even there, if I'm gonna play, I'm gonna spend the night. And that means that I bring my dog. So there we go. You wanna tie me up? Fine. Here's how it's gonna work. I show up with my dog. We have dinner (I'm happy to do the dishes afterwards). We do a scene. We relax with a cigar afterwards. We go to bed. Breakfast the next morning.

The way S/M ought to be.

And to be sure, I would trade the S/M element for the other aspects.

After canceling because he felt a cold coming on Wednesday, I haven't heard from Hort. We had talked about getting together last night. So I called yesterday and left a message saying that I hoped he was feeling better. And if he wanted to get together tonight, give a call.

No call.

Wondering if we were coming at things from two different angles. Maybe I wanted to go on a date, but he wanted some straight up booty.

Sorry, Pal. I'm not doing straight up booty just now. You want a piece of this, you gotta work for it. As in wine me dine me and throw an extra down comforter on the bed.

Uh oh.

I hope this mood lifts during the week. I don't need to be heading down to DC next weekend looking for comfort sex. That will be a recipe for frustration.

Thursday, January 08, 2004

Legs

One of the benefits of living in NYC that I hadn't considered before. When you live in Gotham, you walk everywhere. And going into and coming out of the subway, you climb dozens of stairs. As a result, after thirteen years in the city, I had thighs like hamhocks.

But no longer. Living here in the hinterlands is like living in LA. You drive everywhere. I walk my dog, and I walk from where I parked my car to wherever I'm going. The other day, I looked in the mirror and decided that I was getting skinny legs.

That will never do.

So the other night at the gym, I did legs. Squats. Lunges. Calf raises. All of it. When my brother asked me what the squats were for, I told him, "So I can snap a pencil with my butt cheeks!"

And today, when I was lifting all of those cabinets--with my legs, like you're supposed to--I was really feeling it. I was noisy climbing in and out of the truck. Not me-bottoming-in-a-scene noisy, but noisy enough.

Yup. I got to be Delivery Guy again, going out on the truck with Sad Sack to deliver our cabinets far and yond. (Favorite Sad Sack lines of the day: "She was another one that tried to kill herself when she was with me," and "I always feel sad in the morning. And it gets worse all day long." I actually had a good day with Sad Sack on the truck. We discovered a common interest in Fine Barbeque Experiences of the Deep South. We also shared a moment of remembering what it's like to be twenty years old, when the world is open with possibilities, and the poignant irony that no matter how carefully and prudently you live your life, year by year, doors are closed to you.

An observation that occurred to me as the New Jersey suburbs went by the window: I'm so much less self-conscious than I was when I was living in New York. I don't feel so on display. I used to have what I called 'crane shot experiences': I'd be walking down West Fourth Street and I'd almost see myself as though from thirty feet in the air. "Here's the urban dwelling leatherman, done with the gym and meeting his internet assignation du jour." No more. I just am. Now, I think a little bit of self-consciousness can be a good thing, so I'm not sure how I feel about this. I wouldn't want to forget myself or anything.

We wondered what the Pain-in-the-Ass aspect of the two deliveries we were making would be. With every job, there seems to be one Pain-in-the-Ass. The last time I went out, the house was under construction, and we had to carry these heavy cabinets up a one foot wide plank that was slick with mud. On another it was like an obstacle course: around the landscapers mixing cement in the driveway, stepping over the pipes laid out on the floor of the garage, up the uneven cinderblock steps, hop-scotching over the snaking power cables on the floor...

But there were no Pain-in-the-Ass aspects of today's deliveries. The people were pleasant, they liked the cabinets, I liked their houses, and in both cases it was a clear shot.

Very cool.

It was good to get out of the shop, too. When I started out this morning, I had this weird feeling. Y'see, the guys at work all wear the same clothes day after day after day. And I've been working at the sanding table just about all week. So it seems like the interuption--going to the gym, hitting Starbucks, heading home, making dinner for dad... It's like it didn't happen.

All told though, the dreaded first week back at work after the break has gone really easily.

This morning, when the alarm went off, I found myself listening to what I quickly identified as a reading from Aldous Huxley's Brave New World. Courtesy of the BBC World Service.

I've gotta re-read BNW. And so should you.

And so should everyone interested in BDSM.

The book is all about the search for meaning in a world where we're all self-anesthetized consumers, where we separate ourselves from feeling, particularly intense feelings. I know I know I know it's usually relegated to high school reading lists, but don't write it off. It includes a man whipping himself until he bleeds as an attempt to feel something. High school students can't appreciate the redemptive and salvific value of intense pain, now can they?

But you sure can, can't ya, Champ?

I swear, everything I feel and believe about S/M, Aldous felt and believed first. Although maybe he didn't call it that. But who knows? Maybe he did.

Huh. Maybe I'll adopt 'The Savage' as my scene name [g]. Maybe that's what I'll have on my nametag next year at Inferno. See if anyone gets it.

Anyway, your assignment: go out and secure for yourself a copy of Brave New World. Find a Starbucks. Read. And then report back to me with your thoughts and observations, and how the book relates to your own S/M experience.

Note to Diabolique: Might this be a worthwhile endeavor for the Spirituality SIG?

Wednesday, January 07, 2004

Sweat

When I cleaned my room on Sunday, I made my bed. I was surprised to find a down comforter in the linens closet. I asked my father if he wanted it, and he said that he and my step-mother had found it to be 'too heavy,' and I was welcomed to it.

Cool!

I like a lot of weight on me when I go to bed. In fact, during the summer time, even if it's one of those hot, humid sweltering nights, I've gotta have something over me. And not just a bedsheet either. Something I can feel. Weight.

Well I've got weight. Must be the down of forty'leven geese in that comforter.

And the past two mornings, I've woken up in the morning drenched in sweat. My pajamas just soaked. The heavy comforter and my neoprene flat sheets from Nasty Pig (before I was boycotting them for their lack of support for the community in NYC) make for a furnace.

The other night at Starbucks, just one friggin' day after Bucky and I had the conversation 'About A Girl,' Bucky greets me warmly, asks what I was doing that night, is all about playing eye-hockey, and when I left, runs around the counter to give me a warm and lingering... handshake.

Hmmm. Perhaps Bucky just sensed that I was zeroing in, and needed to give himself some more comfort room. Perhaps The Girl was his last ditch attempt to salvage his personal dream of heterosexual normality.

Or perhaps he's just a nutjob.

Anyway.

Back to square one.

Although the first order of business will be letting Bucky know clearly and unambiguously that I'm a homo. That might scare the bejeezus out of him. Or maybe it won't.

And tonight, I may-or-may-not have a date with Hort. When we talked on Sunday, he proposed that we talk on Tuesday night and firm up plans. I called and left a message with him, proposing that we meet at 5:30 at the Starbucks in New Hope and go from there. I gave him my land line to call last night to confirm ("I'll get it, Dad!"), and my cell phone to confirm today. I didn't hear from him last night, so I hope I hear from him today.

Five thirty must strike some readers as a positively perverse hour at which to get together for dinner, but Hort and I both get up at 5 am for work, and if there's gonna be any hot sweaty mansex, we better get to it early.

C'mon, Hort. Cowboy up, Boss. We got a date. Prove to me that all those mean things I said about Bucks County boys were sour grapes.

I created a Meme at work! I came up with it a few weeks ago, before the break.

A co-worker asked (with disgust) what finish we were doing on a job. There were more than a few flaws in the piece we were working on. I replied, "we're doing Special High-Intensity Tan." He looked at me, not getting it. "Y'know, Special Hight-Intensity Tan. S. H. I. T. It's a SHIT job."

More evidence of the high standards we apply to ourselves and each other at work. In fact, I don't think I've ever worked anywhere that the standards have been quite so high. We all want it to be perfect. Flawless. Nothing less will do. And a SHIT job implies that somewhere along the lines, those standards have slipped. And we've gotta correct that. And we take pride in correcting that.

So yesterday, another co-worker calls out to me, "Hey Dutch! Looks like we've got another Special High-Intensity Tan job coming off the floor."

And he and I got busy making it a Maple frame job with a Fireside 40 sheen glaze instead.

Sunday, January 04, 2004

The Bucky Saga: So Much For That

On my way to do the weekly grocery shopping, I stopped in to Starbucks for some Time for Me.
Fun Fact From the Book I'm Reading I Probably Didn't Need To Know...
Did you know that smoking a pack of cigarets per day reduces your life excpectancy, on the average, by five years. And yet, if you have your testicles removed, you'll extend your life, on the average, by seven years.

Anyway, Bucky wasn't in evidence when I was getting my latte, but when I got up to leave, there he was. Cool. And his beard is even making a reappearance.

Cool.

But then Bucky and I had a little talk. I always like talking to Bucky. He asked how I was doing and what I was up to. I said that everything was copescetic. And then I asked how he was.

"Great," said Bucky, "I've got a girl. We hung out for hours last night. From 2 a.m. until 5 a.m.. So today I'm a little bit out of it, but at the same time, I'm just feeling great, y'know."

And just as I was thinking to my self "Ah well, it couldn't be a lot worse," Bucky says, "So do you have a girl."

I said I did not, in fact, have a girl. I didn't elaborate that I was looking for a boy.

See, I'm really bad in trawling these waters. I always end up foundering on the shoals of sexual ambiguity. Like always. For me, it's gotta be all open and above board.

But, I did talk to Hort today. We're meeting up for dinner on Wednesday night.

When he settled down, he asked me how New Hope's reputation could have escaped me, having grown up there. New Hope is essentially known the world over as being a veritable Nest of Tims. It's all about the hard drinking, sweater-clad, deceased actress-lovin' in that town. After all, the primary industry of the place is the retail sales of frivolous items.

This question has plagued me since I moved here in October. I thought that these woods would be full of Bears. There are plenty of Bears here, but they aren't bellying up to the bars.

This morning in the shower, I was thinking about Nightingale. What a hell of a man. He's hairy, he has a beautiful beachball. He's brilliant on the job, and takes pride in his work. He and his oldest son are always surprising each other with gifts of a great bottle of wine or good cigars. He's devoted to his family. He's just a good man.

And, y'know... a heterosexual man.

So where are his homosexual equivalents?

Hmmm.

I started reflecting back on my own experience growing up here in Bucks County. It was a really easy place to be a gay kid. I got a job in Mother's Restaurant down in New Hope, and there I met well-adjusted, self-accepting, happy adult gay men. So I never had those thoughts of being 'the only one.'

But guess what? By and large, those gay men were the ranks of the sweater-clad and low-slung italian loafer wearing. There were certainly acceptions, but by and large, fabulous dinner parties with salacious gossip concerning deceased movie actresses was the norm.

Early on, this was the behavior I imitated. This, I thought, was the way to be gay.

Until a friend of my sister's, Kevin, who I admired and respected, and looked up to so much, literally took me aside and told me... not quite to butch up my act, but to be my own man. That being a man was actually a great thing, and there was no reason to try to run away from that.

So where would I be save Kevin's intervention? I bet I'd be sitting in the Raven drinking appletinis and bitching about my job at All About Throw Pillows.

So maybe that's it. The locals here--and they're all locals--adapt themselves to the Ways of the Tribe. And those ways aren't Bear ways.

So maybe those Bear-inclined younger gay men get the heck out while they can. Or start collecting Erte figurines.

Maybe I should give it a shot at seeking out those Bears who stayed. Put up some posters inviting Bucks County Bears to come to a mixer of sorts. And not at the Raven. But perhaps at the Starbucks in Doylestown. Just, y'know, getting together for coffee. And when the weather is better we can take over the porch from the juvenile delinquent wannabes and smoke cigars.

A solid black leather codpiece for the David Menkes made flight suit to make it a little more street wearable

Renewal of my Leather Navigator subscription

Renewal of my New Yorker subscription

Non-dorky safety glasses for work

Getting a benign fistula removed from Faithful Companion's butt

Tanning on a regular basis

A vacation. And we're not talkin' about two weeks in Europe, but maybe a long weekend in Fort Leatherdale, or a trip out to see Alpha in San Diego. When will I see the desert again?

A welding machine

Car insurance

New and updated calling cards with my name, email address, and phone number to pass out to hot boys I meet in bars

Web design software (Dream Weaver, or whatever) so that I can finally gussie-up my website

Plants to give the yard of the ol' homestead a makeover come Spring

The fifth season of Sex in the City on DVD

Seeing the Phillies play other than on television

Paint for the bedroom that is now mine

A Weber grill for when the weather gets warmer

Signing up with iTunes (I'm not fooling myself into thinking that I'll be able to keep my purchase of songs at 99 cents a pop under control.)

Ah well. I have my basic expenses met, and (hopefully) enough to keep me in the necessities: cigars, tea, and eye moisturizer. Time for a therapeutic shower and session with the Shower Shot! That'll brighten my perspective!

Saturday, January 03, 2004

New

Great day yesterday.

Took the train down to Philadelphia to meet up with the Baron. We spent endless hours at La Colombe (best coffee in Philadelphia, and possibly the world) talking. Missed my train coming home by mere seconds, and had to wait for the next one. This meant a huge rush when I got back to Doylestown. (No time to check in with Bucky at Starbucks!) Rushed home, made dinner for my father, walked faithful companion, and headed out again.

Cuz I had a date. Hot man from North Jersey. The plan was for us to get into some mutual stuff. As I was tearing down River Road, he called on my cell phone. As he had been fearing, the bronchial asthma he's been battling in the wake of the flu was still with him, and all that phlegm made the prospect of play unsavory. So we took a raincheck from each other.

Undeterred, I decided on a night in New Hope.

And that was nice. I went into one of the best bookstores in the world, Farleys, and found a couple of books to read (Feed the Beast! I need Data!). Then I had a light dinner at Karla's (where, in a byegone era, I worked as a busboy). Soooo strange the way New Hope used to be gay, but isn't gay any longer. Being back there after a fifteen year hiatus is almost a little chilling. Like waking up in Germany in the Thirties, and all of a sudden, all the Jews in town are suddenly absent. Although in this case, the method was not boxcars but real estate. Everybody is now up the river, down the river, or in Lambertville. And they have this weird new parking regulation (Welcome to New Hope! We hope you brought quarters!) that only allows one motorcycle in a parking space. This has significantly diminished the town as a biker destination.

After briefly contemplating a trip down to the Bike Stop in Philadelphia, I opted for the Raven.

And that's where things got interesting.

The place was packed when I got in. There was one guy (One!) that caught my eye. Big, bald, hairy, bushy black goatee. Tourist, of course, in town from Virginia Beach. He was either completely uninterested in me or socially inadept. And he had that vaguely hostile and combattive aire about him that I just don't get. He was on his way up to New York to see some theater and hit the museums. Said that Virginia Beach was a cultural wasteland.

I recommended a trip up the Hudson to visit the amazing DIA Art Center. He said he wasn't interested in contemporary art. He wanted the French Impressionists. Monet in particular. Ah! says me, so it's off to MoMA to worship in front of Waterlilies. No, he corrects, sort of schoolmarmishly, he was going to the Met. Now, not that French Impressionism is my thang particularly, but surely MoMA's collection outstrips the Met there, no?

No.

As far as he was concerned.

I was saved from fisticuffs when I was approached by yet another New Hope boy who confessed to me an abiding fascination with bondage that he has heretofore never explored. I suggested that we both take a trip down to the Philadelphia Bondage Club sometime, and he eagerly assented.

*sigh* What New Hope needs is GMSMA. But then, every place needs GMSMA. A nice safe place to get your feet wet.

But neither Combat Bear nor my budding Top were the Big Thing that happened at the Raven last night.

I... I... I met a guy.

There I was, standing there looking dismissive, when I was hailed by this queeny, sweater-clad guy. (Those New Hope boys might be twinks, but they don't lack chutzpah!) He got me over to his bevvy, introduced himself, and then introduced me around. One of the bevvy sidled up beside me. At first glance, I was dismissive. No facial hair. Lord knows no cigar. But he seemed keenly interested in me, punctuating just about every sentence with physical contact.

And he was a really nice guy. He went to my father's alma matter and studied horticulture, and now teaches horticulture at a vocational high school. Owns a house on the canal down the river. He likes to laugh, and he has a great laugh. From the way he interacted with his buddies, he knows who he is. And underneath the sweatshirt and jeans that he was wearing (and boots!), he is built like a Colt model.

We got to neckin' (something you never, ever see in the Raven). He liked my pierced nips. I liked everything I found. He's a great kisser. World class. And has a great touch. Wonderful hands.

There was quite the spark there. I like this guy. Liked talking to him. Liked his look and his manner. And I think it was mutual. He had to leave as he's visiting family down in Maryland this weekend, but wanted me to have his number. So he says, "Walk me out to my truck."

Buddy, you just won the sweepstakes.

We went out to the parking lot and necked some more leaning up against his truck. It was messy inside. He had this goofy little Christmas wreath in the back window that plugged into the cigaret lighter. And a bunch of crap in the back.

Hort gets a sack full of points for his truck.

It crossed my mind to have a Full Disclosure Moment: "By the way, you should know that I'm heavily into S/M. I'm a Top and I work with singletail whips. And I'm not relationship oriented. And even if I was, at this point in my life, I live with my father, so I'm not without obligations that come first."

But I didn't.

Did I do a bad thing?

Should I just go for it?

Idaknow.

Now, in the clear light of day, I'm just thinking it would be nice to date somebody. A nice guy. Another warm body in the bed in the bleak mid-winter.

Surely, I should be distrusting this inclination, right? I am who I am, and he is who he is, and we're sort of different people, aren't we?

But, maybe not. I mean, he doesn't strike me as proto-anything. Not proto-bear, not proto-Dad. Not proto-boy. He is who he is. And he's secure in that. And he likes who he is.

Thursday, January 01, 2004

At the last minute, I decided to wear the orange trimmed David Menkes made flight suit. It's so rare I get an opportunity to bring it out of the mothballs, I decided it would be a fit occasion.

After the fightin' o' the traffic, I managed to get into Center City. And to the Bike Stop. and there was PissBoss waiting for me in the coatcheck. PissBoss gave me a cockring to wear, reading Daddy's boy. Nice touch. My contribution was to bring a length of heavy gauge steel chain and a padlock. PissBoss secured it around my neck with a padlock and pocketed the key.

It was a good--and good looking--crowd. And it was great watching everything unfold from within the coatcheck booth. I managed to get two phone numbers, one from a woofie guy that I plan on using. And did some face sucking and got my nips worked.

Sweet.

And then, it was last call, things got busy busy busy at the coat check, and PissBoss and I headed north on 95 to his place. We were both pretty beat, so I didn't again end up chained by my neck to the bed and covered with piss and my Sir's cum. Instead, PissBoss worked my cock till I came, and then shot himself. And then, I drifted off to sleep next to PissBoss.
That was a great way to usher in 2004.

This morning, PissBoss made me eggs and english muffins and coffee.

PissBoss and i have similar ideas about treating boys right.

And here's an interesting development. Suddenly, I'm all about Topping. Spent a long two hours on AOL in pursuit of a boy who claimed a lot of experience there in Deptford, New Jersey (apparently a hotbed of sleaze of which I was previously unware) that ultimately went nowhere.

And a development that sure has my attention... this guy in NYC. For the past two years, he's been wearing the collar of a guy for whom I have zippo in the way of respect. And now, he's not.

Gosh.

I mean, this guy is like trophy slave. He's smart, submissive, devoted, obedient, submissive, deferential, and very much the known quantity. And his former Master was out of town.

Alas, though, I'm still unable to host. Is that a deal killer? Could be. Hmmmm.

Anyway. I'm definitely and all of a sudden squarely in a Top frame of mind. I wanna beat a boy. A sweet young boy. I want fresh, young, tender punchmeat.

Better get to bed soon. I'm meeting the Baron for lunch in Philadelphia. And then, I meet up with a Smokin' Man who's interested in exploring mutual S/M.

Which brings up another interesting point. I'm a good Top (so I am told), and I think I've got a handle on being a bottom. But what about mutual? As in, eyelock. Mano a mano? Could I make that work? It takes a lot for me to switch gears. So many vers folks I know say, 'it depends on the other guy.' Not the case with me. I have my mindset, and I notice other men--or not--depending on what my mindset is.